


inquiry

by PaintedVanilla



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anticlimactic, Established Relationship, Gardens & Gardening, Humor, Interrogation, M/M, Married Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 11:52:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18603991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaintedVanilla/pseuds/PaintedVanilla
Summary: Michael and Gabriel’s interrogation doesn’t go precisely as planned.





	inquiry

Arriving on Earth from Heaven is not a particularly flashy event, unless one wants it to be. However, flashiness is usually frowned upon among angels, so when Michael and Gabriel appear on the walkway up to the small, seaside cottage, they simply appear as though they had always belonged there. They set forth in approaching a certain demon in the same breath.

Crowley, who had been working very diligently—no, not diligently, diligence was a virtue. He had been working very _intensely_ on his garden, when he tensed at the sudden presence of two halos that very much did not belong to his angel. He glances over his shoulder and narrows his eyes at the two suited figures making their way up the walkway.

“Corporate bastard angels,” he growls under his breath, then goes back to pulling weeds.

He continues pulling weeds until the two of them come to stand directly behind him, and then he looks back over his shoulder wearily.

“Er,” he says awkwardly. “Hi.”

“Hello,” Michael says haughtily, seemingly appalled at even the idea of speaking to a demon. “I am the Archangel Michael, leader of the Army of God against the forces of Evil. This is my associate, the Archangel Gabriel, angel of Mercy and Promise.”

“Anthony Crowley,” Crowley returns, with the energy of a retail worker thinly veiling their rage and exasperation.

“Yes, the serpent,” Gabriel says, vaguely disgusted, and Crowley grits his teeth. “We have a few inquiries for you, appearing on behalf of Him.”

“Thought He had a guy for that,” Crowley says shortly.

The two angels stiffen. “All angels are representatives of the Lord. The Metatron does not appear for just anyone,” Gabriel says.

“Certainly not a demon,” Michael adds.

“Well, thank you for humbling yourselves for my sake,” Crowley says sarcastically.

“Humility is a virtue,” Michael says. “Not that I would expect—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Crowley says dismissively, “lowly serpent, foul fiend, Fallen angel, beacon of sin, et cetera, et cetera. Listen, you inquire, I’ll weed, let’s make this as painless as possible.”

The pair stand, slightly baffled, and watch Crowley rip a particularly stubborn weed out of the ground. He tears it in half down the stem, then miracles it away.

Michael takes a breath, hesitating, then asks, “Where is the Principality, Aziraphale?”

“Oh, who’s to say?” Crowley says flatly. “He might still be in bed. I really wore him out last night, if you know what I mean.”

Michael and Gabriel both blanch, so startled for a moment, neither of them can respond. They don’t have to, though, because the back door of the cottage opens and Aziraphale emerges. “Crowley, dear, would you like a glass of—oh.”

His expression sours when he spots the archangels, frowning as he abruptly shuts the back door behind him. Crowley sighs, wiping his hands on his jeans and standing, abandoning the remaining weeds for now.

“Well, there he is,” Crowley says, gesturing to him where he stands on the porch. He starts towards him. “Let’s get to inquiring.”

Michael and Gabriel follow him onto the porch; the four of them adopt an awfully standoffish position.

“Peace be with you,” Michael greets Aziraphale politely.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says shortly. “What do you want?”

“Perhaps this might be a more formal conversation over tea,” Gabriel suggests.

“No,” Aziraphale says. “You’re not coming in our home. What do you want?”

“We’re here on behalf of our Heavenly Father—”

“You most certainly are not,” Aziraphale says immediately. “Why didn’t He send the Metatron?”

“The Metatron has far more important matters to be attending to,” Gabriel says stiffly.

“Well, thank you, ever so,” Aziraphale says. “I’ll ask again. What do you want?”

“What is the nature of your relationship with the serpent?” Michael asks sharply.

“I’m right here,” Crowley says bitterly.

“I fail to see how that’s any of your business,” Aziraphale says. “And He wouldn’t need to ask such a question, He would already know. You’re here for your own benefit.”

“Even if we are, we’re still your superiors,” Michael says severely. “Answer the question.”

Aziraphale hesitates, frowning. “We live together.”

“I can see as such,” Michael says. “The nature of your _relationship.”_

“Romantic,” Aziraphale says smoothly. Crowley is a little surprised at how easily he gave up the information, but then again it must have been obvious.

Michael takes a short, frustrated breath. “You can’t have relationships with a demon.”

“Says who?” Aziraphale asks.

“Says us,” Gabriel insists.

“Says He?” Aziraphale asks.

Gabriel hesitates. “Sssays Us,” he says, drawing out the word.

 _“Sssays_ I call bullshit,” Crowley mocks.

“Did you just hiss at me?” Gabriel asks.

Michael reaches into the pocket of his slacks and, in an instant, flicks water onto Crowley’s face. However, because Aziraphale is both incredibly intelligent and protective, he had effectively and immediately rendered any sort of holy items either archangel had on hand useless the moment he laid eyes on them with nothing more than a thought. This left Crowley wiping water out of his eyes.

“Did you just try to kill me?” he retorts, an edge of anxiety in his voice.

“I think that will be quite enough for one day,” Aziraphale says decisively. “Thank you for stopping by, except not really, because you just tried to kill my husband.”

“Husband?” Michael asks, sounding mildly horrified. “Aziraphale, he’s a hereditary enemy, how could you possibly—?!”

“He was _gardening_ when you walked up, Michael,” Aziraphale says, with the energy of a retail worker _failing_ to veil their rage and exasperation. “I daresay the correct word to describe him is retired.”

“Yes, retired is a lovely word,” Crowley agrees, leaning over and giving Aziraphale a chaste peck on the lips. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have weeds to attend to.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says politely; he turns his attention to the archangels who look rather baffled. “Do say hello to Uriel for me, won’t you?”

It would normally take a lot of effort for a principality to transport one, let alone two archangels, a great distance away from himself. But surprisingly, transporting two rather stunned and affronted archangels to the gates of Heaven is not strenuous at all.

“As I was saying,” Aziraphale calls down into the garden, “would you like a glass of lemonade?”


End file.
